


Out of the Blue Box

by magnass (PotofCoffee)



Category: Doctor Who (2005), Sanctuary (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-21
Updated: 2011-11-21
Packaged: 2017-10-26 08:44:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 983
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/281018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PotofCoffee/pseuds/magnass
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Out of the Blue AU. After School Reunion, Sarah Jane is tired of being left behind so she moves to North America. And becomes Helen Druitt's new neighbour.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Out of the Blue Box

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hobbes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hobbes/gifts), [Amanda](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Amanda).



Helen Druitt was startled out of an albeit restless sleep by the honking sounds of a large truck backing up. She peered out of the window to see who was disturbing the whole neighbourhood at seven a.m. and spotted a massive moving truck moving down the road. It stopped right in front of the house next to hers and Helen was intrigued. The house had been empty for as long as she’d been living in the neighbourhood.

Behind the truck came a tiny Nissan Figaro, pale green in colour. It parked on the other side of the road and a woman came out. She had shoulder length brown hair and was dressed in jeans, a shirt, and a vest. Helen watched with interest as she directed the moving men.

Soon she grew tired of the pandemonium, picking up a brush and turning up her music she moved to the blank canvas in front of her.

She breathed deeply and began painting in broad strokes. 

It was a few weeks after the woman moved in, Helen answered her door to find the woman standing there holding Henry.

She took the cat from her.

“Sorry.” she said. The woman looked shocked,  
“You’re British?” she asked in an accent all too similar to Helen’s own.  
“From Essex”  
“London” the woman supplied. But neither felt the need to elaborate and they parted ways without another word.

Henry however seemed to have taken a liking to sleeping on the back of the woman’s car. A few times a week Helen would open her door to find the woman standing there.  
It wasn’t until the tenth time she finally introduced herself.  
“Helen Druitt” she said, figuring that by now she should be calling this woman something other than ‘the woman’.  
“Sarah Jane Smith” the woman replied.

After every visit Helen would move to the small easel in the back of her living room and add a few more strokes to the painting slowly emerging from the strokes lain against the canvas.

The 20th time Helen invited her in for a cup of coffee. The woman politely refused   
“I prefer tea”. 

The time after that Sarah brought a tea pot with her.  
“I assume you have a kettle?” she asked. Helen nodded and motioned her inside.  
They sat on the couches and spoke of nothing of substance.

After she left Helen painted the canvas over in dark blue. The painting she had been making was too light. She could see that now.

It became a daily occurrence, Henry was no longer needed to keep up the facade. And every morning at roughly the same hour Sarah Jane would come over with her pot of peppermint tea.  
The water would be boiling already, the door left unlocked.

They longer they sat in those chairs the less they spoke. Nothing was needed but joint silence and peppermint tea.  
But sometimes they would blurt something out - not carefully chosen speech but instead words which bubbled to the surface and were impossible to contain.  
“I was married once” Helen said once.  
“So was I, in a way” was Sarah Jane’s soft reply.

After that visit Helen used a thinner brush. Adding soft threading lines she hadn’t seen before.

One visit was interrupted by John Druitt himself. Sarah Jane excused herself quickly, but returned after she saw his car leave.  
It seemed inevitable that Helen would grasp her face in her hands and kiss her harshly, backing her up into a canvas of not-quite-dried paint.  
It seemed perfectly reasonable that Sarah Jane didn’t mind one bit.  
Helen pulled back from the kiss, spinning Sarah around and planting her hands firmly against the not-dry but not-wet paint. She bit her lightly on the side of her neck and whispered  
“Stay here”  
Sarah could feel the breaeze against her back at the absence of Helen’s presence but she stayed put.  
When Helen returned she undid Sarah’s jeans quickly, pushing them down around her ankles, her panties following quickly.  
The dildo probably should have been more of a surprise than it was, and Sarah Jane relished in the feel of the hard plastic thrusting into her and the straps brushing against her skin as Helen pressed her thighs against hers.  
She came harder than she had in years, harder than she had since   
him  
, if she were honest. And when she was done she turned around, wresting herself out of Helen’s grasp. She kneeled down, undoing the straps of the harness and pulling it away. Then she leaned forward, hands grasping Helen’s thighs for support as she thrust her tongue into her vagina before dragging it up to flick at her clit.  
It had been years since she had done this, but she hadn’t lost her touch and soon Helen’s hands were digging into her scalp as she came silently, thighs quivering on either side of Sarah’s face.

It became a routine of sorts, tea and sex. Lovers who knew so little about each other. But they shared an intimate knowledge of loneliness. And that was enough.  
Sometimes they would curl up on the couch and it would be slow, sweet, passionate.  
Sometimes Helen would bend Sarah Jane over the kitchen counter and fuck her until her legs gave out.  
Sometimes Sarah Jane would handcuff Helen’s hands to the coffee table and forbid her from making a sound as she teased her within an inch of orgasm leaving her wanting, needing, for hours.

Months later Helen finally finished the small painting.  
She grabbed Sarah’s hand, pulling her over to the easel.   
“I don’t do portraits” Helen explained as Sarah gazed at it. Gazing up from the dark blue background was her. Her own face drawn in blacks and blues and understanding. And Helen merely held her as she sobbed. Free of judgment but filled with jealousy at the ease with which tears streamed down her lover’s face.


End file.
